So Much More
by Siranzan Prower - the Bard
Summary: A Little Sister all alone in Rapture. Mister B has abandoned her and her special needle is gone. Even after a run-in with some Splicers, she had yet to realize her uniqueness, or what she was created to be. So much more then just one of Tenenbaum's demon.
1. The Sister without a Needle

Now hello there, this is my fist attempt at a Bioshock fanfiction, and before you ask, YES I have played the game, and beaten it, although I am currently re-doing it so that I can experiment and explore a little more, mainly for the purposes of writing this fanfic. However, there may be a few slight differences, however I would liek to inform you before hand that this is delibarate and not because I have no idea about the background to what I must admit is a generally awesome game. This fanfic. is rated T becuase of strong language and a variety of other *ahem* themes, however it may be moved up to M if I decide to be sick-minded enough, so add it to your alerts so that you know when I have updated and don;t have to change the setting to find it, see I can be helpful as well as mean.

General Disclaimer: I don't own Bioshock, period. this is the only time I will make this disclaimer, and it applies for the WHOLE of the story.

HOWEVER, any custom characters produced are of my own design, anyone caught COPYING them in any way, shape or form will be fed to Chico, as for WHO Chico is ... check my Profile and find out, now that the pleasantries, and unpleasantries, are dealt with, let us descend unto the watery depths of the mighty underwater city known as ... RAPTURE, now _would you please_ (lol) read on.

* * *

_"It was not impossible to build Rapture at the bottom of the sea. It was impossible to build it anywhere else" - _Andrew Ryan

* * *

Where … where was he? … he didn't know, no wait! … he couldn't remember … what … what had happened to him, he could feel such a pain in his side and his leg … had … had he been in a fight … no, no, no, no he had been shot … by? … he didn't know, but … he felt that he knew them … they had been close hadn't they … then … then?

He looked down to try and find the source of the pain in his leg and, saw, to his utmost horror, his left leg, his perfect left leg, from the knee down, resembled nothing more then a bloody stump of flesh and bone, and he bit off a scream of pain and fury as a tiny voice cut the air like a knife

"Mister B, Mister B, look!"

In the water, outside of the glass, something floated by, and the expression of the girl was sad, as another angel floated past in the water, her orange eyes watched it as it floated past.

"Another Angel gone Mister B" she said sadly, touching the cold glass and shivering a little. There was a large, loud _CLUNK!_ from behind her, as a massive metallic shoe hit the floor. She turned, unafraid of the massive figure, instead she touched its rusted, metallic leg with a strange sort of affection, her expression immediately changed to excitement as she looked around as if sensing something, scampering away from her guardian, she hurried across the rubbled floor of Rapture, hindered only by the syringe which seemed weightless in her hands.

"Don't be a Slowpoke, Mister B, Angels don't wait for Slowpokes"

He could see a series of lights, yellow ones in some sort of strange moving pattern, or they seemed to move, at least to his eyes it did, the faded blue light which shone through the water revealed something more like a demon then a guardian. One arm, specifically the right, seemed to have been twisted into some sort of drill, the rest of its body had been engulfed in … was that a diving suit? … if it was it was like no suit he had ever seen before, and the face … there was no face, and that was what struck a cord of fear with him, instead of a face, the area where it should be was encased in a massive sort of domed helmet, that was where the lights were, there was something … malicious, about the way the lights were just … there, there was no pulsations, no dilating, they just … glowed ominously, aware of everything around its small ward.

The tiny girl paused, atop a collapsed vending machine, the machine sparking a little as the floor shook and her guardian rumbled along to catch up with her. The little girl raised one hand, pretending to shield her eyes as she appeared to scan the darkness, searching for more 'angels'

"_Please!_" he begged in the back of his mind, "_ fuck! don't see me!_"

Voicing it allowed would give him away, although the madness the pain and fear gave him sanity, it gave him to much, enough sanity enough to realise just how fucked he was, he couldn't move through the pain and the stump of his leg, but he tried, he clawed with his fingers, running his perfect nails and dragging his perfect chest along the ground.

"There he is Mister B!"

For a moment he froze, then he began scrabbling, now it was desperation and fear which fired him on instead of his drive for ADAM, as fast as he could, ignoring the pain as best as he could, it didn't matter now, pain was nothing, survival was more important.

"Awwww Mister B, this one's still moving"

An explicative tore from his throat as he felt his hands touch something wooden, as he hauled himself up he could see those orange eyes drawing nearer through the dark, he stood, wobbled for a moment and as he attempted to hop forward, he slipped on something, something wet and dark on the floor. He hit the floor with a screech of agony and a curse, his face landed straight in the middle of whatever he had tripped on, it was water, and he gave a splutter and an retch as the tang of salt water flooded his mouth.

Then he felt a sudden sharp pain in his back, shooting right through his chest, he suddenly felt a whole lot better, his leg wasn't hurting anymore, and his head felt a whole lot clearer … then it hit him, the ADAM, the Little Sister had the ADAM, if he could get to her, he could heal his leg, then … then he could get his next tonic, and the relief would be so much better, and he could get back at Dave for humiliating him last week in that fight, but all that could wait.

He rolled over, the pain suddenly gone, he looked around, but suddenly everything had gone dark, the usual glow which Rapture seemed to possess was gone, replaced with infinite darkness which no light seemed to be able to pierce. Then he felt a massive pain in his chest, and his vision exploded, the last thing he saw was a small little girl, dressed in faded clothes, tore in places and wet, her orange eyes seemed almost a combination of happiness and deep sadness, he tried to reach out, all he had to do w as wrap his hands around her filthy little … but his arm's wouldn't respond, he tried to move his good leg to kick her away … but it wouldn't respond either … it was only then that he notice the syringe buried in his chest, right through his heart … and that he felt that pumping sensation as the life was sucked out of him.

The last thing he remembered was her soft, sadistic little voice, and a jerking sensation as the needle was forced deeper into his lifeless chest.

"Look Mister B, I made an Angel, another Angel Mister B, all for us!"

* * *

_2 Months Later . . ._

All little girls need to sleep, even genetically fucked up ones, even the ones that have had their mentality so twisted they can barely distinguish Reality from Illusion. Of course, she had been told that she would not have to rest for long, an hour, or maybe two, then she could go and save more angels, and that thoughts had filled her with delight as she lay down to sleep in the same bed which she always had, and as they had closed the door, she had smiled deliriously.

The doors were thick, made of steel, the sort you would expect to find on a bank rather then a "Educational" facility, not that their occupants would have known what a bank was, unless it was in some tiny part of their previous existence which "Pappa Suchong" had not yet managed to steal from them. Yet even as the little girl dozed on the same filthy sheets which she had done for so much of her short, tenuous life, as had dozens of other Little Ones, the tiny part of the mind that was left, buried in the repressed subconscious, still began ticking over, filling her unconscious mind with dreams of incomprehensible splendour, the sort of dreams which every child deserves.

There was the sound of an explosion, muffled slightly by distance and walls and the back of someone's skull, but it was still an explosion, enough for the Sister too begin to shake off the shackles of sleep for just under a moment, before she gently drifted back off again, until she was roused by another, this one much closer, much louder,

The little girl sat up in her bed, her face confused, her expression suddenly fearful, where was Mister B . . . was he hiding? or had he found another Sister? For some reason that thought filled her with twin feelings of usurped sadness and childish anger, that wasn't fair, Mister B was going to be in **big** trouble for finding someone else.

Her head spinning a little, she got to her feet, shivering a little at the cold, damp surface beneath her bare feet, wobbling slightly, she took a few steps across the floor and placed her pale cheek against the door, listening, almost awaiting Mister B to tear his way through the door and save her, yet he didn't come, no one came at all. The little girl sighed sadly, hanged her head she returned to the bed and lay down again, singing softly to herself in a sing-song voice as she gently drifted off to sleep again.

"_Mister Bubbles, Mister Bubbles, Are you there?, Are you there? Come and bring me lollies, come and bring me toffees, teddy bears, teddy bears, teddy be-_"

* * *

It happened twice a day now, the thick metal grate at the bottom of the door slid up, and a tray was shoved in, the fact that she was hungry never seemed to register with her little mind, just that there was food their and that if it wasn't eaten it would go bad, so she ate it anyway, whatever it was it was tasteless and mushy and it made her feel a little queasy. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of red high-heeled shoes if she glanced out fast enough, before the grate clanged shut again.

Other times she would hear footsteps, not the heavy clanking ones of Mister B, but soft, _pitter_-_patter_-ing ones, or quiet _clink_!-ing ones, other times she would be disturbed from her dozing by faint, far-off explosions or the sound of gunfire somewhere near-by, all of this was registered and ignored, she needed to find more angels, but … what if Mister B _never_ came back, she wouldn't be able to help Daddy Atlas, or any of the angels, it was these thoughts which saddened her, sometimes enough to cry, but she would stop crying immediately as soon as she heard the footsteps, something told her the footsteps, both the clinking ones and the silent ones, were bad, that they shouldn't hear her crying, so she would take her sadness, like she had been told to, and bottle it for later, when it was safe.

And so the cycle continued, sleep, eat, cry, footsteps, sleep, eat, cry footsteps, sleep, eat, cry, footsteps, she didn't bother to count the days, she never had, they hadn't been told to, just to save the angels, she wasn't sure how any she had made, or saved, just that it was a big number, and that consoled her a little, as well as the fact that Mister B would come and save her, someday.

Curling back up on the sheets, she listened to the _drip … drip … drip_ of water somewhere far, far away, yet amplified enough so that she could somehow hear it, closing her eyes, she went back to her dozing again for what would be, unbeknownst to her, the last time in a long, long time, something was going to break the cycle.

* * *

It started when she woke up again, she found herself crying again, big, fat, wet tears of sadness rolling down her cheeks, glittering momentarily in the air before they feel onto the sheets where they became tiny greying stains, but unlike before, now when she heard the footsteps she found that she couldn't stop, and as the _pitter-patter_-ing and the _clink_-ing got louder, and louder.

Then there was a new footstep, these were neither a _pitter-patter_, nor a _clink_, but more of a harsh _click-clack, click-clack_, which was louder then the former, of which the small part of her conscious mind registered as them being _closer_, and they grew louder, and louder, and louder, _click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clackclick-clack click-clackclick-clack click-clackclick-clackclinkcla-_

They suddenly stopped, right at their moment of crescendo, right out side of her door, and she felt the tears suddenly stop at last, she found herself shivering as she huddled against the wall, her knees draw right u to her chest, her eyes bright and fearful.

The Grate at the bottom of the door was pulled open, this time there were no high-heeled shoes, these were boots, big and black and muddy and red, and there were hints of a long, torn pink skirt near the top of the grate.

"_Hello_?"

The voice was … well she wasn't sure what to make of it, it was dripping with honey, which was what made her a little wary, and there was still the _clink_-ing footsteps which seemed to be getting closer and closer now, even more so then they had ever come before.

Making a quick dash across the cold floor, she got down on all fours, lowering her head almost to the ground, and the face which greeted her almost frightened her to death.]

It might have been beautiful, once, but an over usage of plastic surgery and an addiction plasmids had caused parts of it to quite literally melt, the flesh was red a putrid, one eyes was loose from its socket, and the other whirled back and forth wildly. A claw-like hand shot as and grabbed at her leg as she recoiled away from the grating. The nails were long and black and covered with gore and dirt, the hand itself was puckered and a long series of scars seemed to replace what might have once been veins, and the nails gouged into her leg with a vicious pleasure.

"Come here Little Sister, soon I'll be beautiful again, you can make it so"

The voice no longer dripped with honey, more like fury and passion and something which she couldn't identify, but whatever it was it scared her, she tried to pull away, but that only made the pain worse. She felt the fingers tighten to an inexplicable length around her leg as they began to drag her towards the grate with an inexorable fury.

She felt the nails bite into her legs and she prayed for Mister B to save her, but Mister B was gone . . . gone, all gone and left his Sister all alone. It was that thought which filled hr with two notions, One, that no-one was going to save her, unless Two, she saved herself. As she felt herself get dragged a little further towards the grate, she flung up her arms, the idea being that she could at least put up some sort of fight if she was going to … to … she didn't even want to think about it, but it was what happened next that surprised her.

The hold on her leg seemed to weaken a little as the entire door shuddered on its hinges … before the whole thing was suddenly ripped free, and sent ploughing straight into the angel on the other side, smashing it flat against the wall, reducing it to so much red jam, but also making the angel useless, the door wobbled slightly from its position, free from its former position, then it fell backwards, crashing to the floor with a resonating _clang_! which seemed to shake the whole floor.

The Sister watched with almost childish interest as the torn flesh of her legs calmly knitted itself back together, tiny droplets of red being sucked back into her as the pale white skin sewed itself together and she gave a happy little smile, that was her baby that did that, her special little baby, they all did that, they all had babies in them, and they had to look after them, to feed them, so that they didn't die.

She stood up, still a little wobbly, as she tentatively stepped out into the corridor, she … she had vague memories of this, little fragments of reality which were buried in her mind long forgotten and gathering dust, now recalled in all their glory.

She clambered on top of the door, her expression curious, there was something stamped into the door's surface, but … what was it, she hadn't learned how to read properly, but she could count very well. For what seemed like ages she sat, her legs crossed, and stared at the letters on the door with a thinking expression on her face, puzzling out their meaning, then she tried to form them into sound.

"eee …. eeee … llll … lllll …. eee?"

" … eely? … eeeeeeelllleeee?"

"….. elee? … elleee?"

Pausing for a final try, she composed herself, then tried again.

"E.L.L.E … Elle"

Elle? … Elle? … _Elle_? Elle? **Elle**? … was that her name … she couldn't remember her name … she had had a name, they had given it ot her, it had been a nice name she remembered, something easy to remember … would it have been Elle? … well why else would they have put it on her door anyway?

The newly named 'Elle' smiled happily again, now she had a name, and she liked it, she liked it very, very much. She stood up and did a little twirl, her small patched dress swishing a little about her, and a sudden cold breeze made her shiver. She needed to find Mister B, then … then she would be safe, then they could find more angels … she flexed the fingers of her right hand experimentally … she was missing something … something important … her special needle, the one that Mister B gave her … she needed to find it, if she didn't … Mister B would be mad, then they wouldn't be bale to be friends any more, that thought made her more sad.

She looked around, thinking where her needle had gone, she hadn't had it in her room, which must mean that she had dropped it … which meant that she would have to go and find it. She did another twirl, one finger pointed out making her seem like a dial, until she eventually stopped, her pale finger pointing to the corridor to her right. Her expression cheerful, she hopped off the door and skipped down the corridor, her expression happy, she was going to go find her needle, then she could go and find Mister B.


	2. The Ambrosia Complex

Now where was I ... ah yes! Hello again, you people are very lucky you know. My muse has decided to be nice and has kindly allowed me to write you yet another chapter, which is most fortunate for you indeed. now _would you kindly_ please continue reading.

* * *

"_Hurry now. My muse is a fickle bitch with a very short attention span_" – Sander Cohen (who seems to have the same problem as me)

* * *

The newly named "Elle", although that thought made her feel good, now she felt sad, because she was loooooooooooooooooooost, hopelessly, terrifically lost. She had wandered down corridors with a spring in her step until she realised that she had no idea where she was, then it had turned into a sort of depressed stomping. Mister B always new where he was going, and now she had lost him … she felt useless. Totally and utterly useless. Her right hand twitched again, she _needed_ to find her special needle, otherwise Mister B would hate her, forever, then she would never get to play with him anymore.

Turning another corner, she was greeted by another long corridor, yet she trudged onwards wearily, tirelessly. She was _going_ to find her needle, she really wanted to be friends with Mister B again. She paused for a moment, resting herself by seating herself on top of a fallen vending machine, drumming her fingers against it gently in an odd little rhythm which she made up as she drummed, passing a little time until her legs stopped hurting a little. Standing back up again, she stretched, feeling the tiny little muscles expand a little to their limit, feeling better, she began skipping along the corridor again, passing more of those heavy doors, just like hers, she looked at the numbers, 3748, 3747, 378 …. something, the last number was obscured by a red handprint.

Elle passed a few glass windows, and stood right up on her tippy-toes to peer over the sill and see what was going on inside. The door lay of its hinges, broken in two, and the doorway itself seemed to have been enlarged so that something could be dragged in, there were big, black drag marks on the floor. Within, through the dark, smoke-blackened glass, she could see angels, alive ones mind you, so they weren't proper angels, just bad ones. There was about 6 or 7 of them, but wasn't what made her heart jump a little in her chest, it was the angles, several dozen of them, maybe more, twisted and bound together with glue and ropes and supported by crates in places. Fashion into some towering, crude altar to someone or something, whichever it was she couldn't tell, just that it made the hairs on the back of her neck crawl, just like the bad angels. The bad angels had some sort of pot, a huge, massive one, forged somewhere in the heart of Rapture, made of steel, almost like a soup pan, enough to drown several people in at least, and … and they were pouring things into it. Different coloured bottles, red ones and green ones and blue ones and yellow ones and so many other pretty colours with seemed to sparkle as their glittering contents was poured into the massive pot. The lights from the pot seemed to reflect all over, shining around the room like hundred of shining stars, and the false angels looked upon its contents with hunger, the flames of hundreds of candles flickering around them, revealing the drool on their lips.

One of them seemed to be in charge … well is was sort of obvious really, she was about a head taller then all of the others in the room. She might have been pretty, once, a long, long time ago. One hand seemed to have been sliced away at some point, replaced with a wicked looking hook with a sharp, barbed edge, not so much replacing the hand as much as it had upgraded it, turning it into a weapon of pain and scarce little else. One side of her face, the right side to be precise, appeared to have some sort of growth on it, a cancerous bulge almost completely covering the whole of the eye and cheek, and the other half of her face was veined and red as if it was sore. Her remaining hand was thin and bony, covered in long, thin scars, some still with stitches in them, and in places the flesh seemed to have torn open where the stitches had broken open, the wounds now sealed with dried blood and badly applied bandages.

Raising another bottle into the air and unscrewing the cap, she poured it into the bubbling pot, kicking up a cloud of hundreds of tendrils green coloured smoke, which seemed to wrap themselves around her like tentacles in the most strangest of fashions.

Then she saw it, balanced far above them atop a pile of empty boxes, crates and the twisted macabre shapes of dozens of angels, held aloft like some strange device of ritual sacrifice, was _her_ special needle. Now it was one thing to lock her in a room without Mister B, but it was another thing completely to steal her special needle. That had been a super-special present from Mister B, and she ground her little teeth, how could she get it back?

Stealing a look around to see if anyone else was looking, she ducked through the door way, and the first thing that struck her was the temperature, it was really warm, really humid, she felt the breath in her lungs suddenly catch as if it had been stolen. She slowly edged her way around the room, not wanting any of the bad angels to see her, Mister B normally would have protected her, but Mister B wasn't here any more, which meant she would have to protect herself … somehow.

She looked up at the towering alter of twisted bodies and boxes, her expression thoughtful once again, how could she get up? She could climb … but then she might fall, and Mister B wouldn't be there to catch her. She could kick it down … but then it would all fall down and she might get hurt, since Mister B wouldn't be able to shield her … no … she would _have_ to climb it, a prospect she was not looking forward to, as she suddenly found herself going down with a bad case of Vertigo just thinking about it.

Trembling a little, she pulled herself up the first crate, glancing over at the strange ceremony going on, as the woman reached for another bottle, uncapping it and pouring it, with great reverence, into the huge pot, which was almost full now, and something told her that it was bad news if it was full. She hauled herself up a few more boxes, finding her hand twitch a little every time she came across an angel, the instinct was almost overwhelming, enough to almost cause her to gnaw at it with her teeth, she _had_ to save them, she _had_ to save them all, every last one, otherwise … no one would.

She instinctively took a glance down, and realised she was much higher then she intended to have gone and she found herself higher then she thought, she felt her feet wobble a little … and then she almost lost her balance, but instead of herself, a tiny broken piece of plank went flying out into space. It seemed to hang there momentarily in the air, then gravity took hold and dragged it down to Earth, where it hit the ground with the tiniest of _plinks_, landing off somewhere to one side. Although it may have seemed like the most insignificant of sounds, it was enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room.

"_What wassssss that!_" the leader's voice was a sibilant hiss, dangerous and lethal, her hooked hand seemed to twist in a threatening gesture, and the half-emptied bottle in her other hand spilt a little of its blue liquid on the floor, where it foamed amongst the dirt and gore. The rest of the bad angels looked around, their expressions flickering in the flames, confusion registering along with fear, lots of fear.

"Rats" one of the bad angels said, his voice coarse and defiant "justa a coupl'a rats Roz, tha's all"

He quailed suddenly as the one identified as 'Roz' rounded on him, her single visible eye was filled with, ironically, burning anger.

"_Ratssssss_ issss is, I'll sssshow you _ratssss_"

Her remaining hand brought itself up in an imperial gesture, and Elle thought she saw some flicker from her palm up into her fingers. She snapped her fingers, and there was a loud _crack!_-ing sound, and then the bad angel caught fire.

At first it was nothing more then a single tongue of fire which caught his arm, then it spread like a wild fire, consuming his whole body in raging hot flames. The bad angel tried to put them out, smacking at himself with his hands yet failing miserably. She could smell burning flesh and cooking fat and black, choking smoke and she had to force herself not to gag loudly. The angel collapsed onto the floor, dead, his entire body a mixture of black and red putrid flesh, a well-barbeque splicer indeed.

'Roz' glared at the other angels, her expression one of the utmost fury, her hook-hand shaking violently, and the other still had a faintly orange glow to it, as if she would like nothing better then to torch the rest of her compatriots.

"No one issss to dissshturb me, unershhhtoood!"

Heads bobbed fearfully, then they went back to their drooling.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, she wiped her forehead dramatically and recommenced climbing. It was starting to get wobbly now, the jitters were spread right the way through the whole structure, but no one seemed to be noticing, they were all too busy drooling.

She had almost reached the top, when 'Roz' gave a sort of half-scream, half-whoop, as she tossed what must have been the last bottle off to one side, where it shattered into hundred of pieces against the wall. Turning back to the other angels, she pointed at one of them, of whom immediately cringed, expecting to be burnt again, but after a few moment sighed with relief after finding that he had not been.

"You, retrieve the-"

She was interrupted however, by something completely stupid to say the least. In those last few, desperate moments, Elle had finally managed to scramble up to the top, retrieving her precious needle from where it had been precariously balanced on the edge. She held it aloft as if it were some kind of trophy.

"I FOUND IT MISTER B, I FFOUND IT, I found it … I … found i-"

Then she realised what she had done had been incredibly stupid. The angels were now all staring at her hungrily, their expression covetous, but 'Roz's' expression was one of abhorrent fury.

"Shtop her, she has the sacred needle"

One of the angels rushed forwards, gathering a ball of fire in his hands, he hurled it up at her as Elle ducked. The fireball smashed into the wall where he head had just been, leaving a long burn mark. There was a hollow _thock!_-ing as 'Roz' smashed her hook-hand into the splicer's skull, killing him instantly.

"You fool, we musht not deshtroy the altar, lesht-"

But it was too late, the tiny embers from the scattered fireball had done their work, only just a few had managed to survive for much more then a few moments, but they had already weakened the top of it considerably, and the top was supporting the rest of the structure.

Elle felt it wobble, then shake, then rattle, then the entirety of the 'altar' came crashing down in a tidal wave of boxes, crates and angels. As for Elle herself, she clung onto her precious needle as tight as she could, as she tumbled through the air she saw people and colours and fire and everything all whirl into one solid, continuous blur of vision, then with a tremendous _splash!_

She fell, head first, into the massive pot.

The world exploded into colour, red, blue, green, yellow, she opened her eyes, or tried to, and all she could see was colour. Arcs and sparks of electricity zapped backwards and forwards in front of her eyes. There was a sharp tugging sensation on the back of her dress as she felt herself get yanked from the solution with a furious pull. Spluttering a little, she found herself staring into the single, bloodshot, murderous eye or Roz. There was no mercy in that eye, just rage and violence and blasphemy as it turned from the solution in the pot, to Elle.

"The potion ishh spoiled … you will pay for thishhh"

Roz's other hand seemed to shimmer again with flames, just like it had down before, and Elle felt herself suddenly resign herself to death. Mister Bubbles wasn't here to save her now, and now he never would be able to. Roz thrust her cancerous face right in front of Elle's as she brought her hand closer, and closer, Elle closed her eyes, wishing it was all over.

And then something long and sharp and pointed exploded out of Roz's forehead, Elle scream, the point stopping less then a centimetre from her face. Roz's single eye whirled up to look at it, then with an almost dejected sigh, she sagged forwards … and dropped Elle right back in again.

This time was different however, Elle felt like her little lungs were going to burst, she needed to breath but knew she couldn't, no, no, no, no, she musn't, she musn't , she musn't , she musn't she- …. she tried to breath, expecting sweet relief, and instead she was met wit ha massive, double lung full of fire, she tired to cough, to spit it out, but there was no air with which to do so. She felt herself gently touched the metal bottom of the pot as darkness began to close in around her sight.


	3. An Issue of Stomach

Elle didn't notice it a first, even as the darkness consumed her … was it a hand? .. Mister B come to save her? Whichever it was, she was past caring and consciousness by the time it reached her. It gripped her, hauling her from the massive pot in a single, easy pull, although the amount of solution within had defiantly gone down by a serious amount, she have obviously drunk a lot of it in the course of her drowning, however all of this was unbeknownst to her, as were so many other things, including the newly fallen bodies of 7 splicer's on the floor, and the corpse of Roz, pinned to the was by a crossbow bolt straight into the bone each fore-arm, and a wooden-stake through her heart.

* * *

"-explain it to me one more time then, English"

"Oh for heavens sake, I've already had to explain it once before, why weren't you paying attention then" The accent was British, distinctly British. Cultured, urbane, tremendously civilized and genuinely frustrated. Elle tried to open her eyes, but found that she couldn't, it was like they were glued shut at the eyelids. She tried to move, to use her hands to see if there was anything blocking her sight, but then found that she couldn't move, it was like she was frozen still, unable to move, paralyzed almost totally, gripped by some immense lethargy.

"I was busy"

"_Busy_? Oh that's very useful, now if your quite finished being 'Busy' hand me that other scalpel"

There was the sound of a tray of objects, metal ones, being shifted around, then the faint sound of something exchanging hands. Then it started, a searing pain in her stomach, continual and unrelenting, it was like being ripped apart and repaired and ripped apart again and again and again by hundreds of thousands of sharp, pointy objects, indiscriminating, indescribable pain. she tired to move, but found that she couldn't, she could only breathe and silently, mentally, scream. Through the emotional fit she heard a grunting sound, then there was a sound of flesh tearing and she felt her stomach heave violently. There was an odd _plop_, the sound of something metallic being immersed in liquid, followed by a curse.

"Damn implants! looks like this might take a little longer to fix them I thought"

"Fix, you never said anything about _fixing_ English"

"Yes I did, you just weren't paying attention, you were 'Busy', we've already established that point, besides, if I _don't_ remove the implants then that stupid slug buried in her stomach going to kill her"

"Then why not just _cut_ them both out then?"

"Because that would kill her as well, so all I can do for now is remove some of the implants, lessen the pain and the neurological trauma, and anything else which might jump out at us. Unfortunately for the little one, I can't do it any other way, the good Doctor didn't share all her secrets you know"

There was a snort, followed by the sound of exhalation, and Elle's nose caught a slight smell of smoke, and if she could have she would have retched nad cughed.

"How long?"

There was a momentary pause, with some obviously mental calculations being done, Elle felt another pulling sensation in her stomach, then heard another _plop!_

"A few more hours or so, depending on how much anaesthetic we have left"

"Enough for another … 2 hours at least, speaking of which"

There was the sound of something going _pop_, probably a cap being removed, and Elle felt another sharp pain in her arm, although this one ended super-quickly, unlike the other one, which was still, still tearing at her insides like a fire. She suddenly felt very tired, very tired indeed, she couldn't feel her stomach hurting anymore. Mentally she gave a small sigh, as she felt sleep begin to grip her once again, but this was a different sleep, a much kinder, gentler sleep.

* * *

The next time Elle woke up, she was alone. Her head was hammering, her stomach was on fire, and her hanks were shaking like mad, otherwise she felt absolutely _great_.

She sat up, her eye adjusting to the dimness of the room around her as she looked down at herself. Someone had removed her dress, the previous one she had been wearing, which mad her a little cross. Mister Bubbles had given that to her, and now it was gone, yet … for some reason that didn't seem to bother her as much as it should. Ignoring that thought and pushing it aside, she looked down at what she was wearing now, a sort of cross between a dress and a suit, coloured grey, with lots and lots of little pockets and buttons and zips and other things, which made her feel a little weird to say the least. She wriggled her toes and found that someone had places a pair of, if odd, socks on them, one was red a fluffy and warm. Whilst the other was blue and white striped and had a hole near where the big toe should go, but otherwise was at least as warm, except for the fact that they were at least 4 or 5 sizes to big for her. So much so that she probably could have used them for tights if she felt like it.

Feeling a little groggy, she shook her head, trying to clear away the veil of tiredness which made her eyelids feel like lead. She was in a room … obviously, the wall were panelled in wood, intricately slotted together to give it the feel that as if the entire room had been carved out of a single piece. The design itself was simple yet complicated, the work of a perfectionist, an artist maybe, yet all of that was lost upon a little girl who had spent most of her life observing corpses as divine messengers. The room was lit by a single bulb, hanging tenuously from the ceiling by a thin cord, every now and again it would either brighten a little, or dim a little more, meaning that her eyes soon began to hurt because of the constant adjustment. The first things which leapt out at her were a beautifully forged crystal chandelier, which had probably once hung where the simple light bulb had been, and an old gramophone … there was something about it … had she seen one before … maybe, somewhere … although where she had seen one she couldn't quite think, it was like there was a massive cloud hanging over her thoughts, a dark, oppressive cloud.

The remainder of the room was filled with materials, books, magazines, newspapers, all stacked hurriedly atop each other in an extremely untidy fashion, grouped sometimes depending on their size or colour, or at least that was how she saw it. However there was one thing which interested her the most, a small, shiny disk of glass, surrounded by a loop of polished brass, through which all she could see was blue … was that the sky … no, not the sky, the ocean. The enormity of what she could only glimpse through a tiny hole scared her, just a little, one little girl against the whole wide ocean, that was how she felt, such a small little girl, lost in all that blue.

She gingerly moved her legs over t the side of the bed, so they were dangling freely, after a few moments of doing little stretches to wear out the stiffness, she pushed herself forwards, and landed n the floor with a small _bump! _Then it hit her, like a sack of potatoes, a sudden, sharp, excruciating pain in her stomach, which shot like lightning through her body. Lancing through her veins like a fire, striking directly at her heart like a thunderbolt.

Clutching at her stomach, she keeled over like a dying tree, hitting the floor with a loud _flump!_ She had had a stomach ache once, but this was nothing compared to that, it was as if someone had taken liquid fire and poured into her veins, and speaking of veins. She could see the light in her stomach, flowing outwards, consuming her. She felt her little heart flutter weakly on her chest, as if it were about to stop, then the fire reached it, and in a single heartbeat she felt her veins suddenly explode. Another heartbeat, and she felt her veins explode again, she curled up on the floor, the pain was unbearable, worse then before, a dozen times as bad, a hundred maybe, maybe even worse then both of those but together. A third, and just a soon as she thought that she couldn't take the pain any longer, she heard a faint, almost minute _pop!_ right in the middle of her chest. Her poor little heart had given in to the fatigue and stopped dead, unable to take any more strain.

Then for the second time in so many days she drifted off to sleep, except this was different from any sleep she had ever drifted into, not the quiet ones, not the sudden ones, not the dozy ones, not even the kind ones, this one was cold, dark … and nigh on endless!

* * *

This was a different room now, although the wooden paneling remained the same, this room resembled a cross between a surgery room, autopsy centre, and a small laboratory. The centre of the room was taken up with a silver, rotatable worktop/operating table with several strap on it for holding down the more … volatile patients. The entirety of one wall were covered in various little sketches and formulae and pictures of autopsied Splicers, spread out and scattered among complex medical charts and scribble notes with instructions, hints and tips of a variety of usefulness and levels of legibility. The other wall was overwhelmed by a massive blackboard, which stretched almost the length of the room, stopping just short of the door, where a small shelf contained about 10 or 11 boxes of chalk, most of them opened.

At one end, there was a sink, where a few remnants of the days operation still swilled around in the corners of the porcelain device. There was also a mirror, flecked with blood, and several metallic pots filled with sharp tools and a small, plastic dispenser containing disinfectant. Off to either side there were a massive pair of cupboards, their twin double-doors reinforced and shielding their contents from the prying eyes of those who would find out what lay within. Up the other end, there was a pair of desks, the leftmost strewn with vast amount of paperwork, most of them with different collared notes attached to them with paperclips as an indication of their importance. There was also several trays of medicinal tools, scalpels, tweezers, drills and lots of other more gruesome tools, some of which you would expect to find in the dungeons of Viktor Frankenstein then in a small office under the sea. The rightwards one was covered in what might resemble more of a child's chemistry kit then a scientific genetic laboratory, test-tubes and Bunsen burners boiled and smoked strange coloured liquids, giving the room an extremely warm and moist feel. On the floor, tucked just out of view, there was what appeared to be a still-beating heart in a glass jar filled with green liquid, where it continually beat out a strange, calming rhythm. However the atmosphere in the room was far from calm, far, far, far from calm.

There were three people in the room, discounting the small child who lay, mildly unconscious on the operating table. One of them sat in the corner, leaning back on a wooden chair, the joints creaking every now and again. In one hand he held a cigarette, taking a puff of it now and again, fuelling the acrid atmosphere of the room. He was dressed in a long, brown trench coat, which had been with him through the trenches, and the oceans, and the beaches and now to the depth of the ocean, it still had the insignia on it, a man wielding a spear and riding a Pegasus, on each shoulder. In places there were patches which hid bullet holes and plasmid burns and generally unpleasant stains, but its creased surface was generally well-worn, but he probably wouldn't get a chance to get a new one so he stuck with it. His feet were booted, bug, black ones with steel-toe caps, as his commanding officer had once told him:

"These boots, you use them for three things and three things only. Kicking in Doors, Windows and fucking Nazi Skulls. Use them for anything else and you'll be the one polishing them till they shine like damn sunbeams"

Of course, then the war had ended, and being a solider had become 'out-of-fashion' so to speak, but then a Mr Andrew Ryan came a calling. He was looking for men, tough, dependable me to help him with some enforcement for a little … project which he was working on, and he had jumped at the opportunity, like so many others. Taken deep under the sea to do Ryan's bidding … until he went mad. He was one of the lucky ones who got out alive, although he almost did end up on Ryan's wall with a spike through his skull.

The next man was a little older, probably being in his late 40's, or perhaps older, the slight indentations on either side of his nose indicating the heavy usage of glasses. His hair was almost completely grey now, and beneath his nose there was a slight, bushy moustache which helped keep his upper lip warm. He was dressed in a white laboratory coat, heavily stained with red and green and a variety of other colours beneath which he wore a suit, and he was one of the few sane who did, and his shoes were suede, black and polished. His face was pockmarked with wrinkles, both through age and stress, and he had a burn scar on his cheek. His hands were veined yet steady, and he was missing the top portion of his ring finger, the price he had paid for getting to close to a Splicer which he assumed was dead, he had got his ring back in the end, but it had been a bit bloodied. He had a slight stoop to his motions, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and sometimes muttered to himself in an urbanely British accent, formulae and sequences and equations pouring out of his mouth at odd times.

The last man was younger then the other two by a great comparison, Russian, early 20's at least, if not younger. His sandy-blonde hair still had that sheen of youth about it, as did his face, even if his forehead was a little lined, but that was recent. He was dressed much more casually, beige shirt, rolled up sleeves, and a pair of brown trousers held up by a pair of suspenders. At his waist in a holster was a revolver, which had had quite a bit of work done to it, little tweaks and additions. On the surface he had been an engineer, electrician, plumber, welder and a half-a-dozen other careers despite his youth, and all of that 'technical' knowledge came in handy down in Rapture leaking underworld. Out of all of them he was the most silent, only voicing his opinion when he felt it necessary, unless he was excited, then you could never shut him up.

Of course, the little girl didn't know anything of this, it was yet to be revealed to her, even as she stirred a little they were talking. The scientist, earlier identified as 'English' fiddling with a variety of chemicals and compounds, the Russian watching him intently, maintaining both a not of interest, and of watchfulness. Even as he bustled with various medicines and chemicals, English was still speaking, getting a little crotchety in his old age, he had his back to the Smoker.

"- and your definitely sure about this?" his voice betrayed a note of curiosity

"Yep, Rozella was cooking up another of her 'cocktails' as she liked to call them"

"_Liked?_"

"Well I killed her obviously"

There was an odd patting noise, as the Russian gave English a firm pat on the back, whoever the face of the aging man was set.

"Comrade, we all knew you had thing you her until-"

"Before she flipped her lid!" This was a new voice, effeminate and with a slightly Irish drawl to it, followed by light footsteps on the wood, there was a faint breathe of cool air and the faint sound of a door shutting quietly.

She was tall and slender, one might almost describe her as upper-class, and indeed she had considered herself to be, until Rapture went to Hell. Now there was no 'class' so to speak, just the sane and the insane, and she was definitely one of the sane. She wore a simple dress, loose-fitting and hard-wearing, the way they should all be really, that was they don't get in the way. In a similar way to the Russian, she tore also wore a pistol at her waist, except that hers was unmodified and had seemed a little sleeker then his in places, a German Luger, which she had … 'liberated' from its previous owner, a German Officer who really had never understood the phrase "Don't Trust the Irish" until when she shot him with it.

The Smoker lent forward on the chair to select a cigarette, lighting it using his old lighter as English continued after the interrupted.

"Yes … well, she was never quite the same after her first course with Steinman"

"An you t'ink anyone was English?"

"No … anyway, what were you saying about a cocktail?"

There was the sound of scraping wood on stone, followed by the creek of wooden joints and a loud exhalation as the Smoker took a loud puff, leaning back in his chair to continue his story

"Lemme see … Every now an' again Roz would find 'erself a bunch a lunatics who was willing to 'elp her. Somehow, an' a wish I knew how, but she was always able ter' get hold o' massive quantities of Tonics an' Plasmids. Then the crazy bitch would stick it all up in one great big cauldron, pot, empty barrel, anything that could hold liquid, then she'd cook herself a nice witches brew an' share it out. Problem was, taking the stuff in that sort of concentrate kills you stone dead, unless you mix it with ADAM, of course … Roz nevah told'em that, so 7 or 8 Splicers later Roz has all the ADAM she needs to drink it safely."

There was another deep breathe, followed quickly by another smoky exhalation.

"Of course, that was when this little blighter ended up falling in it somehow, of course, that ticked Roz off something nasty, then sh-"

The speaker was cut off however, by the sound of glass smashing, followed by the acrid smell of scorched chemicals and sulphur, there was a stunned silence.

"Y-y-y-your not serious … she _actually fell in it!_" English stuttered, his tone clearly showing shock

"Well yeah English, why else do you think she was laid out the way she was when I brought her in. I mean be a bastard at times, but I don't beat up little girls"

There was the loud sound of stomping feet, which seemed to fade a little, English crossed the room in four strides, his expression one of the utmost, righteous fury as he bore down on the Smoker like a hurricane.

"And yet you _failed_ to mention this earlier!"

"Well it sorta slipped my-"

"You _idiot_, it perfectly fitted my hypothesis of why she collapsed all of a sudden, and yet you neglect to tell me that she downed enough Gene Tonic and Plasmids to kill us all instantaneously!" the annoyance in his voice was about as plain as the missing part of his finger, he was ticked, severely.

"but … she's still alive, why isn't she-"

"_because _she's a Little Sister! her veins are already stuffed full with ADAM, I wouldn't be surprised if she sprouted wings, forget wondering why the defibrillator didn't work!"

"So what are you going to do about it English?" The Irishwoman cut it, her expression slightly concerned, yet none of that was betrayed in her tone, she was seeking more to stop the argument then to inquire.

"Me? … nothing I can do, except wait and see what happens after her genes re-sequence" English said, placing his hands in the pockets of his coat and pulling out a small torch, checking both of the little girl's eyes by peeling back the eyelids by shining the light in them, suddenly turning back to the Smoker with an admonishing look on his face

"_if_ they haven't been shredded completely"

A deathly silence followed, broken only by another exhalation of smoke and the fizzing and bubbling of chemicals, the Smoker said nothing in response, in fact it was the Irishwoman who spoke.

"Is … is that serious?"

"I don't know … maybe, the extreme quantities of ADAM in her system might be able to hold her genes together long enough for her body to naturally re-synch them together, but it'll be touch and go for a while"

"What if she wakes up?"

"Well if she does, you'll be the first to know about it, as soon as the anaesthetic wears off there's going to be more electricity running through this room then there is coming out of Rapture's core"

"Why?"

"_Why do you _think? There's enough ADAM stored in her body to fuel a nice Plasmid spree, and if my Math is correct, which it mostly is, 1 ADAM is equal to … roughly … well I have no idea"

English broke off his speech and, plucking a piece of chalk from a box, began doing some hurried calculations on the blackboard, which continued for several moments until he finally gave a grave reply.

"It all depends on quality, and I don;t have the right equipment here even if I did, but that's besiede the pintand her body is going to burn off all of the excess ADAM it can in one _massive_ shot"

"So what do we do?" an obvious question to say the least, but they were in Rapture, and some things you could and couldn't do, even if society had goen to hell, there were still things you just didn't do.

"Well … if we were in a hospital … I'd stick a lithium rod in her arm, fireproof the room and leave her for a week to burn off the excess power, but since we can't do that, we'll just have to lock her up here for at least twice that long and hope that there is something left when we come back" English seemed t pause, as if he was willing to contribute more to the discussion, but then turned back to his blackboard and began scribbling more notes, at an even faster pace then before.

"So she's a ticking time bomb for two weeks, _AND_ she may not survive it?"

"Essentially … yes, Mags, although shouldn't we be worrying about us, rather then her?" There was a note of finality about that statement, punctuated by a sharply dotted 'i' on the board.

'Mags''s expression was one of complete genuine lacklustre, however she was the first to notice something the other had not, something very, very simple, but would surprise them all.

"You do realise she's awake?"


	4. A Blurred Disposition

My God …. This is annoying … I can write 10,000 words .. and in 2 months I can top a 60,000 word story which has been around for almost a year … lolz, anyows … responses to your most interesting questions:

BloodJemini: This story probably takes place before and upto Bioshock … can't say naymore otherwise it would give away certain things … lol, but lets just say certain events will also come into play as well.

Hero's Valor: If I told you that … then that would ruin the tale … but lets just say it will be very interesting … *thinks* I haz ideaz now … lol, but lets just also say it will make for good reading … and some seriously badass moments.

As for myself … my funds are a little low at the Moment (I hate other peoples birthdays), but ASAIC (As Soon As I Can) I am going to buy Bioshock 2 and play that as well … because it looks cool.

Now _would you kindly_ read on … please? Not like you have any choice in the matter … not unless you WANT to lose your liver *pets Chico meaningfully*

* * *

"_The Artist reflects the world as it ought to be, not as it is damned to be by some spasm of the lower mind. But I shall not censor. The park is Lamb's property. However... if the case we are building against her proves true - I will return with a sledgehammer." _– Atlas Ryan

* * *

Loneliness was something she had grown to accept, being alone no longer bothered her as much as it had, now what bothered her was … the feeling.

It crawled across her skin, caressing her skin, her hair, her flesh with its rough, invisible hands with the strangest of touches. Her stomached retched, her head rung, her fingers itched, her joints ached and her heart fluttered weakly in her chest, still not recovered from its previous strains.

One of them would bring her food and water sometimes, she wasn't sure what time it was, just that the familiar sound of footsteps outside generally indicated a meal. The food however, seemed to turn to ashes in her mouth every time she tried to eat, or becoming so cold and solid it couldn't be bitten, the water boiling away, or freezing in the cup as it touched her lips.

Then there was the pain from her stomach … it was like being stabbed with knives, big, throbbing, burning, icy stabs of splintering pain which spread like electricity across her body, through her veins and cells and dirty nails and raged hair. Torturous, horrific, lancing pains which boiled and lanced and zapped through her organs, making them feel like they were being reduced to so much putty.

There was no such thing as sleep, time just seemed to tick by, merged into one, every time she even closed her eyes to link, there would be another surge, and more pain and more blood and ice and fire and ashes.

Her skin bled profusely as sharp, needle-like icicles burst through the pale flesh, which turned a chilling blue at the sudden, painful cold, spreading their chill to anything they touched at a whim. At the same time, the ice would melt, painfully tearing itself from her skin, to be replaced with a burning feeling, which crept up her arms, scorching and searing the skin and flesh around her hands, as bright blue flames sheathed her hands in their flaming fury, charring her clothing to ashes. Every time she came near something metal, the electrical energy flowed through her, burst from her body and fingers and hair with a loud _ZAP_!-ing sound, which echoed around the room like a roar.

It was … a painful process, a human body, even a genetically fucked-up one, isn't designed to take that sort of energy discharge, at any voltage, and to say that it is excruciatingly painful is an extremely large underestimation. It was horrific.

And then there was the other side effects, the blue and the green and the red, seeping from her pores, mingling with her tears, dripping from her exposed skin like some sick, diseased slime, in the periods between fire and ice. She was trembling all the time now, a continuous, fearful quiver which made her hands shake, and standing nearly impossible, all she could do was … curl up on the floor, there was no way to stop the pain, yet know way to predict its coming, there was no sequence, no set pattern of appearance, no method to its madness, it was random as chaos itself.

She was numb, neither through cold or heat but some twisted combination of the two which drove her sense of feeling slowly towards the point of corrupt and gibbering insanity.

She wanted Mister B, now more then ever, he would know what to do, he … he could fix this, all of this, make her better again, then … then they could go save more angels, lots more angels, enough to … but where was her needle?

She look around frantically, panic of previous occupation surging through her, somehow lifting the veil of pain and weariness from her mind and her sight for a brief moment, before the Reality of her situation smashed down on top of her, her legs buckling, driving her to her knees as another wave of pain flooded her sense, taking any hope she had held, even for an instant, and boiling it away with an almost unyielding fury that only nightmares could comprehend.

She keeled over, feeling herself hit the marbled floor with a small _thunk!_

Something grabbed her forcefully by the arm, its pale, clammy fingers and dirty nails digging into her arm, dragging her upright. She felt herself claw at them, trying to free herself, and there was the hum of machinery and the faint zap of electricity merging dangerously with water. All of this was identified at panic speed and fed into her tiny mind at a hundred miles an hour, her childish, useless finger tired miserably to free themselves from the snake like grip of the pale fingers which dragged her towards that fear.

"No, no, please papa Suchong! I don't wanna go on the table, _no, no, nooooooooo_!"

Her voice sounded younger … how much younger, she couldn't tell … everything was just one … big, disintegrating blur of thoughts and ideas and illusions and stuff which blended together into a fantasy of Reality which did not exist except in the fragile remnants of her conditioned insanity.

Then it was like the demons of Faustus descended upon her. Faces, so many faces, ripped and bloodied and broken and violent and savage, with broken and torn limp, crude weapons and claws and hooks and pipes and a macabre assortment of clothing, all piling on her, wanting her, tearing at her skin, her hear, her eyes, her stomach, goring and spitting and shooting and savaging and pillaging and looting and raping and a hundred, thousand different other horrific events, no longer angels but demons of the foulest nightmares, the dregs of hell brought back to torture the mind of their 'savior'.

She clawed at her stomach with her gnawed, dirty nails even as they had, she … she had to get _it_ out … they … _they_ had … had … put _it_ inside her, her precious, her, her precious baby in her stomach … she had to keep it alive, she _had_ to, it was hers all hers and no one else's, just hers and Mister B's, and he would protect he- … but where was Mister B, gone, gone, off cheating with some other little girl and the thought of it made her grind her teeth and her hand spasm a little, oh how she would love to turn the one responsible into an angel for stealing Mister B from her, he was _her_ Mister B, no one else's, just hers, they were friends, partners, he cared for her, so, so, so much and now … now he was … now he was … _gone_.

"**MISTER B**!"

Even as she woke, soaked in a cold, damp sweat, that name was on her lips, screaming itself out into infinite silence. Her heart gave a massive shudder in her chest, almost as if to burst again … and then relaxed calmly back into its usual rhythm, timid as a mouse.

Her eyes were wide, frightened, as the horrendous nightmares slipped away gently, their tendrils of control gently being shoved away by Reality's placid expression of a little hope. Her chest was heaving, big, deep gasps, she felt … damp? … yes, damp, very damp, especially in the corners, which made her shiver slightly, she felt both warm and cold at the same time, warm blood and cold, cold sweat colliding despite the white barrier between them which should have kept them apart.

She felt tired … but this was a different sort of tired, not sleepy tired, she had …. She had been sleepy tired before … this was more like … tiredy tired, the sort of tired you feel after waking up _really_ early after a _really_ late night … and yet … it seemed to make her head feel really light and fluffy, like cotton-candy … mmmm … cotton-candy … she was hungry, very hungr-

Almost as if to answer of her thoughts, there was a sharp _click_, and the sound of rusted metal screeching in protest as it was shifted from its comfortable old position to a new one, one which it did not want to be in at all, Open.

A chill breeze swept into the room, carrying with it the thick smell of brine and salt and … something else … something she couldn't identify … but she ignored it, mainly because she was feeling woozy again … very, very, ve-ry woooooooo-zy … and then, almost on a whim, she nodded off, despite the burdening curiosity which had suddenly overwhelmed as to who had come for her … maybe it had been Mister-

But before she could finish that thought, she was unconsciously asleep.

* * *

The next awakening was much more … peaceful. There was no sudden feeling of being dragged into wakefulness, or forcefully awaken with a shake or something more volatile, it was a calm, complacent way to wake up, under her own free will, it was an enjoyable experience … and she felt very refreshed … but … she wasn't sure … had she felt this feeling before? … a feeling of … freedom-ness? … she felt as if a great, heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders … but there was something she was forgetting … someone … but she couldn't quite remember who … someone very important … what was his name, it began with … wait! … she wasn't sure what it began with, but it was important. Elle shrugged to herself, whomever they were, they would probably find her eventually, life was like that.

She opened her eyes sharply where she heard a small, sharp _snap!_ … the sound of something being broken in half … something dry … She blinked rapidly, her eyes whirling momentarily in her sockets as they flared back from the bright artificial light, despite how din it was. There was another small _snap!_ This one made her jump, mainly because something long, golden coloured and smelling very nice, was suddenly thrust in her face, but ... she couldn't see it properly, it was like she was still tired, everything was still a little blurred

"Breadstick? … freshly made?" a voice asked curiously, the small object now identified as a 'breadstick' quivering a little, and it was only now that Elle began to notice the fingers wrapped around the other end, pink ones, with childish, polished nails. She blinked, then, tentatively reach her head forward and took a small biting motion in the general direction of the long object with, and felt her teeth meet something crunchy. In a manner similar to that of a squirrel n a nut, she nibbled … the taste was … new, dry, yet filling … and there was a strange aroma in the air which made her stomach give a small growl hungrily, and she heard a small laught issue from somewhere out of her bare spectrum of vision, but she could see a formation of colour moving somewhere to her left, causing her to blink owlishly to try and see if she could clear her vision, but to no avail.

"Hungry?" the voice was definitely female, but it was strange … she hadn't heard it before … that meant that she was new … or old … whichever did matter to her, but she felt a slight kinship with this person, her blurred appearance shifting its position slightly.

Elle nodded eagerly, and took another small bite of the offered breadstick. It was at this point that she realised that she had held down, strapped to the same rotating table which seemed very familiar to her, secured by what felt and seemed to be several long, thick straps, enough to stop her moving, but not so constricting that it hampered her or was painful … which explain why she was feeling a little numb in places. She thought this over as she chewed the remainder of the dry substance identified as being a breadstick, before swallowing it with a small amount of gusto. She felt a small warm hand gently pet her on the shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do" the voice said, and she heard a small amount of soft footsteps, light upon the floor, as they gently lead away from her, and Elle felt alone again, but that was only temporary, in the same moment that one person seemed to leave, another person seemed to enter. This one was a man, he had that feel to him, but the voice was one she recognised all to well, she tracked his blur across the room as he hobbled from the area where the door was, to the tables, picking something up, he approached where she lay, looking at her as far as she could see, with great interest. Then she heard the sharp rap of a pencil tapping on metal, catching her attention. His accent was familiar … but his name … Engrish … no … English … eys that was it .. or … that's what they'd called him.

"Hello? … Miss. Elle? … can you hear me?" he said, making a small waving motion, Elle nodded, her expression confused … why should she not be able to hear him … duh! She tried to ask him this but … she couldn't … no … yes … she couldn't … if she could have she would have touched her throat, but se couldn't, all she could do was mouth soundlessly.

English looked up from the chart he was holding in his hands, his blurred figure appearing somewhat intrigued.

"I'm afraid that you won't be able to talk for a while Miss. Elle, the surgery you received has several affected the muscles in your voice box" he peered at her curiously, then wrote something on the chart "and apparently your eye sight too … hmm … may have to get that checked" he muttered as he replaced the chart on the table and walked over to her, gently touching the side of her neck with two fingers, his touch was cold.

"Well you seem to be just about all better Miss Elle, apart from a little malnourishment and dehydration you seem to be normal" the last word came out a little hesitant … reassuringly hesitant and she cocked her head to one side curiously, as he turned back to his chart as if to note something else, before he looked up at her, muttering something.

"… _probably nothing_" he said quietly as Elle felt the straps around her chest beginning to loosen as English untied them. When the last, thick strap left her body, Elle stretched, feeling the muscles enjoy the feel of movement, however in that single moment, the small girl had something else on her mind, as her small arms wrapped themselves around his waist in a strange gesture of thankfulness, it was at that point that she realised she was crying … why was she crying? … was she happy? … yes she was happy, and she felt mute tears roll down her cheeks as a friendly hand rested itself on her shoulder. The tall Englishman knelt down, bringing himself down to her levels, and gently removing her tears with a small kerchief of which he had produced from somewhere within his voluminous lab coat.

"There there little one, there there. Its okay now, you're safe now" he said soothingly, gently touching her hair with one hand, before she eventually released him, looking at his blurred face with a sad smile on her face.

English stood back up, tucking the kerchief back away in one of his pockets, he gently took her small left hand in his right one, smiling a small smile at her, he gently lead over to a chair, which he held her onto to, reaching into one of his pockets he pulled out a ball of material, which he made a curious motion with, which seemed to divide into two almost like magic, all the while whilst she watched the blur with fascination, he looked up at her with a slightly amused expression on his face.

"Have you ever worn socks Elle?" he asked, selecting one of the two pieces of material in one hand and rolling it in on itself so that it formed a small ring, Elle shook her head.

She felt his slightly cold touch again as he rested the ring of material on the point of her toes and began to roll it up her foot, she immediately noticed the temperature difference, it was like someone had placed a pool of warm water on her foot, it felt nice and soft.

"You've never worn socks before … ever? … didn't your feet get cold?" English question as he began to do the same thing to her other foot.

Elle shook her head again, and gave a warm shudder as she felt her feet enveloped with warmth … and softness, she liked that feeling of softness, it was nice nice, not weird nice, nice nice nice.

As Elle hopped off the chair, English gently rested his hand n her shoulder and guided her out of the door, into a dark corridor. There was the tang of metal in that air, and the scent of brine was even stronger here, but she could feel a warm sensation in the breeze, heat was coming from somewhere. Guided by the Englishman's hand, she gingerly made her way down the corridor, feeling a feeling of dread and nervousness building in her chest, a good feeling though … well .. more like a good-bad feeling … she wasn't sure.

After a few moments of walking, she emerged into a large, cylindrical room, the wall were lined with huge cases of books and their shelves, as well as a thick, thick coating of dust in places, which made her nose itch badly, the floor was carpeted in some strange red design and the room was lit with an intricate chandelier which seemed … familiar.

Passing through this room, she found herself in an elaborate living-come-dining room. One side of the room was dominated by a massive, old-fashioned wood fire, within which a fire roared, surrounded by a semi-circle of a combination of sofa's and chairs which were mostly unoccupied. The other side of the room was dominated by a massive, ornate table, carved out of wood, but its surface was scratched and the wax had faded or been rubbed away in places, now only a shadow of its former splendour.

English guided her over to a chair nearest the fire, where she relished the heat, seating herself in a plush green chair which had the strong stench of perfume on it, which felt very soft indeed. She snuggled herself up in its green comforting grasp, enjoying the feel of the heat from the fire, it was … comforting … familiar? … yet comforting, and she just felt herself beginning to drift onto sleep when she felt something rough poke her in the side of her neck. Blinking her blurred eyes awake, she found her sight was a little better now, the blurs were still blurry, but not as blurred, at least this time she could make out the person on the other end of the breadstick.

It was a girl … with long, billowing black hair, which cascaded behind her like a river until it reached her waist with ease. Her eyes were a silver blue, hinting mischievousness and a hidden maturity. She was dressed in a small, long-cut skirt made of some hard-wearing material, and a boys formal shirt which had had the long sleeves trimmed off so that they were much shorter, around her neck she wore a small flute on a string. She sat, cross legged on the arm of the chair, staring at Elle as if she was some kind of angel, in one hand she held a breadstick and the other was resting on the end of one of her feet, which were clad in some kind of slip-on shoe, colored black, upon which her tiny fingers drummed nervously.

"Ohayo Gozimasu Utsukushii!*" she said, with a mischievous smile, taking a bite of the breadstick which she had poked Elle with, and chewing it with the utmost innocent mischievousness.

* * *

* a cookie to the person who can guess what that means


End file.
